


Find Me to Forgive

by wordsthatkeepyouhome



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Gen, I don't know what else to tag this with, Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 17:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsthatkeepyouhome/pseuds/wordsthatkeepyouhome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever Mycroft had said about caring, Sherlock knew there was only one reason he was committed to bringing Jim's whole empire down. Sherlock cared about John, and he'd do anything to keep him safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before Reichenbach aired so the details of the Fall are completely my own. Just moving this here from FF.net

There were two figures sitting on stiff armchairs by the fireside. One sat forward in his chair, elbows on his thighs, hands intertwined and his chin resting on the crook between his thumbs and forefingers. His eyes were fixed on the fire as it cast dancing shadows on the heavily decorated walls, the carpeted floor and their skins. The other figure was watching him, leaning into the chair with his legs crossed. The fingers of his right hand were on his lips, giving him a thoughtful and calculating look. Their faces betrayed no hint of the surging thoughts they had within. To an outsider, the two men would just appear to be absentmindedly staring into nothingness. But an absent mind is never the case for the Holmes brothers.

The silence was both familiar and terrifying. The two brothers were used to not having to speak to communicate. Their similar ability allowed them to read each other most thoroughly. But this conversation was unprecedented and the conclusion of this could have great repercussions.

Mycroft reached for the glass of scotch on the small table between the chairs and drank. Sherlock's was untouched. As he set the glass back down, he noticed a subtle change in Sherlock's posture. His shoulders relaxed for a fraction, releasing some of the tension that was there.

"Have you made your decision, dear brother?"

Sherlock didn't answer right away. He settled back into the chair and aligned his own arms with the chair's. He closed his eyes and let out a breath.

"I don't know if I can do it, Mycroft. I can't do this to John."

"It's not a question of your capability, Sherlock.  _Will_  you do it? You are well aware that I would assist you in every way I am able. Maybe you've forgotten-"

"Of course I haven't," Sherlock snapped. His hand reached for the glass on the table and both of them noticed it was shaking. He pulled it back, fisted both and tried to calm himself.  _Breathe. Just breathe._  He tilted his head back and allowed the air to fill his lungs.  _That's it. Deep breaths._  Mycroft waited patiently. It was disarming to see Sherlock this way, but unlike his little brother, Mycroft's emotions were always in check. The Iceman,  _ **he**_  had called him.

Sherlock reached for the glass once more, this time his hand was steady. He took two sips and set it back down. "I know the gravity of this matter. Jim Moriarty must be stopped. Forgive me if I take a moment to consider what this would do to John." Sherlock looked straight into Mycroft's eyes and the latter could see the anguish in those pale, storm-coloured eyes.

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock," he said, not breaking eye contact. Mycroft watched as his younger brother buried his face in his hands and then ruffled his hair twice.

Sherlock thought long and hard. He knew it had to be done and he knew he was the only one who could do it.  _But John…_  Sherlock couldn't even begin to imagine what it would be like if John had done what he was thinking of doing, what he was about to do. Just the thought of John… dead… Sherlock repressed a shudder. He knew he'd be devastated beyond belief. And he knew that he'd blame himself for the death of his best friend. If this reaction was something he, a high-functioning sociopath, would be capable of, he had no doubt John – warm, sweet and  _normal_  John – would feel undoubtedly worse. He had no tangible data to support this conclusion and the idea that he might soon be able to filled him with excitement and dread. Mostly dread. Because being excited about such things would be a bit not good, John would say.

"He'll never forgive me for this," Sherlock said solemnly. Mycroft noted that his whole body appeared resigned. He looked up at his brother once more; his mind finally decided and said, "Promise me you'll look after him, Mycroft."

"Naturally, of course."

"Let's do it then. When are we meeting?"

"Tomorrow. He was the one who organized it. If we had set it on our terms, he would be more suspicious, I'm sure."

"What do I have to do?"

"All you have to do is jump. I will take care of the rest. By this time tomorrow, Jim Moriarty will be dead. And to the rest of the world, so will you."

"Just text me the details. I'll be going home then."

"Anthea shall accompany you."

Sherlock couldn't be bothered to resist. Quite frankly, he'd rather be alone to think some more. Whatever Mycroft had said about caring, Sherlock knew there was only one reason he was committed to bringing Jim's whole empire down. Sherlock cared about John and he didn't deserve to be put in danger just because he had the misfortune of being associated with the world's only consulting detective.  _John's too good for that._

* * *

John didn't know what was going on. In fact, he was barely aware of where he was and what he had been doing.  _Find Lestrade._  Yes, that was what John had to. He had to find Lestrade. He would clear everything up. He'd explain everything. He'd explain how everyone seems to think that Sherlock was…

John made his way through the crowd, pushing just a little bit harder. Blood was flowing through his veins, spreading panic and fear throughout his entire body. John knew that if he stopped moving for even a second, he would be paralyzed by all his emotions. He had to keep it together. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't.  _Lestrade. Where's Lestrade?_

His eyes quickly spotted the familiar silhouette, frantically shouting orders. John rushed right over. Lestrade saw him approach and met him halfway. John noted that the detective inspector looked weary and visibly worried.

"What the hell happened? Where's Sherlock?" John asked him at once.

"John…" Lestrade gulped before continuing. "We have teams searching the waters. We'll find him, John."

John shook his head tentatively. "I… don't understand," he looked at Lestrade and slowly shifted his gaze towards the expanse of water.  _Sherlock is somewhere there? Underwater?_

Lestrade was still speaking, probably trying to explain it to him. He tried to make himself listen, but his mind was too busy processing the information from his eyes as he scanned the surface of the water. Waiting, just waiting for an out-of-place ripple or a bubble. Anything.  _Come on, Sherlock._

He managed to understand snatches of words. Sherlock and Moriarty. Helicopter. A text. It didn't make any sense to John. Surely it was all just a misunderstanding. He half-expected Sherlock to come up from behind and tell them off for being so stupid to think that he would actually jump off of a helicopter. It was bloody ridiculous. This whole thing.  _Why haven't they found him yet?_

"We got here as soon as we could by car, just in time to see the helicopter lose control for a bit. Two bodies fell out and hit the water. It was him, John. Him and Moriarty. Someone was definitely bleeding, water turned red as soon as it settled."

The mental image of blood seemed to stir John from his dazed state. He was a soldier, a man of action. This was no time to stand still. "Mycroft. Did you call Mycroft?" John's voice seemed suddenly hopeful. Everything was possible with Mycroft. He'd find Sherlock for sure. Has to.

Lestrade tried to hide the pitying expression on his face, but John noticed and felt his own face fall. "He has his own team out there searching."

"How long have they been out there?" John asked, mentally preparing himself to hear the answer. He thought of what Lestrade had just said. He thought that as long as Mycroft came to assist them, they would be able to find Sherlock. But the fact that he was already here and they haven't found him still…

Lestrade looked at John hesitantly. He was just as afraid to answer as John was to hear it. "It's been three hours."

 _Three hours._  The thought seemed to punch John in the stomach and his lungs felt as if they had imploded. There was not enough air and his heart was pumping twice as hard in response. The ground rose up to meet John as his bad leg gave way.  _They're not expecting to find him alive. They're just looking for the body._

Lestrade gripped his arm and lowered himself to John's level.

"I'm sorry, John. But at this point…"

"Don't say it, Greg," John warned, still feeling a bit winded.

"You may have to accept that he just might not come back…" He trailed off.

"Alive. That's what you mean, isn't it?" John snapped, his eyes shooting daggers. "He can't be dead, Greg. He just can't. Not like this."

"I know." Lestrade repeated those two words over and over, trying to comfort him. His voice grew softer and the hand gripping John's shoulder was now gently moving up and down John's arm.

"I was just with him this morning. I was just…" John tried to remember everything that had happened, if he had missed something, anything at all that would have warned him that this was how the day was going to end.

He sensed a presence beside him and saw Lestrade give a weak smile in greeting.

"John, let me offer you a ride home."

It was Mycroft. "No, I want to stay here. They'll find him soon. I'll wait until then," John tried to get up but he couldn't.

"You're in shock. You need to rest. I will inform you of any developments." Mycroft hooked his arm under John's and Lestrade did the same; together they helped him up. "Come along, John."

He allowed himself to be led away into a sleek, black car. Before he'd even realized it, they were in front of 221B.

"This is a nightmare, worse than any nightmare I've ever had." John buried his face in his left hand, trying to will himself to wake up.

"My brother was very fond of you, John."

John noted the past tense and a sob almost escaped his lips.  _ **Is**_ , he wanted very much to correct him. Mycroft shouldn't be using the past tense. No, he'd do anything for his brother. He wouldn't give up. Never. Yet he'd used it just the same. That one word told John everything he didn't want to know.

He got out of the car as quickly as he could and ran up the stairs before Mrs. Hudson could come at him with questions. The flat was unnaturally still and quiet. It was as if it knew that one of its tenants wouldn't be back.  _Don't be silly, John._  His eyes wandered around the room, taking everything in. It all seemed so very different all of a sudden. The knowledge that Sherlock was possibly dead changed his entire perspective; it changed him. Because he was now John, the person who had just lost his best friend, unlike this morning when he was John, the person who shared a flat with Sherlock. It was all so surreal. He glanced towards the wall with the painted face and thought of how Sherlock would never shoot at it again. He looked at the violin propped on Sherlock's chair where he had left it this morning and thought of how he could never hear Sherlock play anymore. He saw the skull on the mantelpiece and remembered how Sherlock had once said it was a friend of his. It was all wrong. John's legs had stopped holding him up and he dropped to the floor on his knees.

A beep sounded from the inside of John's coat pocket. It was from Mycroft.

John didn't open the message for he had noticed something flashing on the top right corner of his phone.  _A voicemail?_ After fiddling with the buttons, John managed to play it.

"John…" The deep baritone voice greeted him from his phone. His hand reflexively gripped it harder.  _Oh God, no. You did not just leave me something like this, Sherlock. This is so not on._

"Please forgive me for this," the voice continued. John could feel tears welling up behind his eyes, the fingers of his right hand were digging into his palm. If he didn't relax it, he would bleed soon. But he didn't care.

"You left me, Sherlock. Why? I would have come along. I would have, no, I could have helped, you bastard."

"It had to be done. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. You would have come after me. And I didn't want that."

"Of course, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no one can compete with my massive intellect," John said bitterly. He could feel his throat closing, it was getting harder to breathe.

"I don't know how everyone else is going to interpret this. Lestrade or Mycroft may lead everyone to believe it was some heroic act. Queen and country. I don't care what they think, but it is imperative that you know…" The voice paused and John heard the slight break in Sherlock's voice. The tears were falling freely now and John used his palm to wipe them away. He saw the blood on his hand and the open wounds where his nails had cut into his skin. His ears strained to hear, the pause seemed to last for minutes.

" I did this for you. No one's going to strap a bomb on you or aim a sniper at your chest. You're safe now, John. You're the only one that matters."

An electronic voice informed that it was the end of the message. John felt the phone slide from his hand and it fell to the floor. A sob was rising in his chest, ripping through his insides, mixing with all the grief and anger and guilt. It came out of his mouth in waves and folds. John slammed both of his fists on the floor. He had a strong desire to shoot something. Or someone. He would probably shoot Sherlock for dying and John knew this wasn't a rational thought. He didn't know what to think anymore.

_Sherlock was dead._

_He's dead, John._

_Sherlock's dead._


	2. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a week, he thought. It's today. I'm supposed to give his fucking eulogy today.

Sherlock remained still with his eyes closed. He winced as the flood of information from his other four senses attacked his tired and quite possibly drugged mind. His ears could make out a soft, dripping sound,  _IV fluids?_ , a whirring noise coming from somewhere above him towards the left,  _air-conditioner_ , and a steady, rhythmic beeping,  _normal heart rate_. He was on a bed, wrapped in cotton sheets. The fabric felt cool and smooth on his skin. He moved his hands slowly and took hold of it, feeling it beneath the pads of his fingers. A moment's pause and then Sherlock wiggled his toes. Satisfied with the mental inventory of his limbs, he took a deep breath. The air that entered his lungs smelled so strongly of antiseptic and disinfectant that he could practically taste it, leaving a burning and stinging sensation in his nasal passage. He sneezed and winced again. There was a sharp pain in his left side. His hands felt around the area gently.  _Bandages. Wet. Needs changing._

Sherlock opened his eyes and pulled the sheets off of him. He tried to sit up and gingerly accomplished it. He could now see the red stain spreading its way through the cloth and was still as calm as ever, more amused and not at all horrified that he was wounded.

_Sebastian Moran. Until next time then._

"Nice to see you're finally awake, Sherlock." Mycroft flashed a quick smile and walked towards him. He hung his umbrella on the railings and took the empty seat beside his bed.

"Did the plan work perfectly?" Sherlock thought to ask. But knowing Mycroft, the answer was already expected.

"No. Not as perfectly as I had hoped." Mycroft looked at him pointedly. Sherlock frowned for a second and then realized the meaning behind his words.

_I got shot._

"I can't say I did not anticipate the risk. But I had supposed that you would be able to work your way out of any of a number of nasty situations."

"I did. I timed it perfectly."

"Next time, choose the alternative where you won't get shot. If I find out you only did this for the morphine-"

"Don't be preposterous, Mycroft. It was all I could do to not die! Losing a bit of flesh is much better than losing my life, wouldn't you agree?"

Sherlock could hear the beeping noise accelerate and he tried to calm himself. For a few moments, as if to allow him to, Mycroft didn't speak either. Only until after the heart monitor returned to its usual rhythm did they continue the conversation.

"Sebastian Moran, was it?" Mycroft inquired.

Sherlock nodded.

He was remembering what had happened, out there on the roof, then in that helicopter. He had texted Lestrade before he went to meet Moriarty, setting the stage for what was coming. The whole plan wouldn't have succeeded if there were no witnesses. And who better to testify to the series of events than Scotland Yard?

Jim Moriarty had met him in his usual Westwood suit, standing alone on the platform in front of a grey helicopter. What was supposedly going to be just a simple discussion about the current score between them turned into some kind of hostage situation. Just as Mycroft had anticipated, knowing that there was an on-going deal between them that Moriarty would want to leverage. Moran was waiting in the helicopter. Sherlock had thought that the helicopter would have been too conspicuous for a quick get-away but when he pointed this out to Moriarty, he just laughed in his usual, insane way. For a second, Sherlock believed that Moriarty had devised some sort of trick to fool his brother but he quickly shrugged the thought away. It didn't matter. It wouldn't matter. He just needed to time it perfectly and it would all be over.

With the element of surprise, and a well-placed hit with his elbow, Sherlock managed to push Moran away from the door but right into the pilot which caused a sudden lurch. Sherlock opened the door and looked out. He could see the stretch of water below and knew that there was no allowance for getting it wrong. He had to be accurate down to the last second and inch. Sherlock felt a hand grabbing his shoulder and heard Moriarty say, "Don't be obvious. I'm going to kill you anyway." Sherlock turned to look at him and from the corner of his eye, he saw Moran reach for his gun. Knowing he was seconds from certain death by bullet, Sherlock grabbed Moriarty's hand on his shoulder, smiled and said, "Wouldn't dream of it." There was a loud crack and Sherlock allowed himself to fall out of the opening using every bit of his force as well as gravity to drag Moriarty along with him. He saw Moran's jaw dropping in shock, heard Moriarty's scream as the bullet went through him and grazed Sherlock. They were falling, a tangled mess of limbs. Their coats billowed in the wind, serving as some form of air resistance, but they were still falling fast. He knew that at this velocity and at that height, they would be knocked unconscious as soon as impact. Sherlock closed his eyes and waited. All he knew was that before he blacked out, before the water swallowed him whole, he was thinking of John.

An audible cough brought Sherlock back to the hospital room. He looked at Mycroft and suddenly realized he didn't ask the most important question.

"Jim Moriarty?"

"Dead, as planned. My men disposed of the body."

"Was it the bullet, the impact or the water?" Sherlock asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"He drowned. But I doubt he would have survived for long with that bullet wound either."

Sherlock nodded as if he was agreeing with the assessment.  _Jim Moriarty is dead_ , he thought to himself.  _He's dead, Sherlock._  For some reason, all he wanted to do now was call John and tell him the good news. But he knew he couldn't.

"How's John?" He asked, finally.

"He's… to be expected." Mycroft composure faltered a bit, and Sherlock scowled.

"He's writing your eulogy," Mycroft added. "For your memorial service this Sunday."

"I didn't ask what he was doing. I asked you how he was, Mycroft." Sherlock said, visibly on edge.

Mycroft sighed and gestured something with his hand. Anthea walked in with a set of clothes and dropped it on Sherlock's bed.

"Anthea, tell them I'll be taking my brother home, as soon as they change his bandages."

"Yes, sir." And she was gone.

"You still haven't answered my question."

"I thought you would rather see for yourself at your service. Use one of your disguises. I trust you won't ruin the plan now that you've set it in motion."

Sherlock eyed Mycroft suspiciously. "What if I do?"

His older brother gave him a warning look and stood up from his chair. He walked calculatingly towards Sherlock and reached for his umbrella.

"By all means, tell him, Sherlock. Tell John you're alive. We both know how well he kept Ms. Adler's secret."

"It's an insult to compare my relationship with John to his relationship with the woman. I'd trust John with my life."

"But you're supposed to be dead." Mycroft said, in a dangerously low tone. "Whether or not our plan works may rely on how convincing John's performance is."

"Except it won't just be a  _ **performance**_ , Mycroft." Sherlock said, his voice dripping with disdain.

"Exactly, my dear brother. It will be real and that will be to our advantage." Mycroft saw the outrage etched on Sherlock's face, but before he could express them in words, Mycroft spoke again. "May I remind you that this was your decision and I'm doing everything I can to support it. Please do not argue with me as it's getting terribly tiresome. I would suggest you think about why you chose to do this in the first place."

Mycroft strutted out of the room, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts.

In the silence, a memory resurfaced in his mind.

" _ **Tell him you're alive."**_

" _ **He'll come after me."**_

Sherlock sighed and was thankful that he was alone in the room. It proved to be too difficult to stop his tears from falling. _You can't come along this time, John. I'm sorry._

* * *

John was swimming. The water was cold and dark, but he could still see him. _Sherlock._  He swam towards him, reaching out as far as he could and trying desperately to grab hold of him, any part of him. But the current was taking him farther and farther away. "No! Give him back," he screamed, but all that came out of his mouth were bubbles. He screamed some more, but the water pushed its way into his mouth, into his lungs. He was drowning. He was dying. _Sherlock's dea-_

John woke up with a start, panting. His sheets had been haphazardly thrown on the floor and his clothes stuck to his skin. He sat up and hug his knees to his chest, wiping away some of the sweat on his brow on his pajama bottoms. He tried to steady himself, taking deep breaths.  _It's been a week_ , he thought.  _It's today_.  _I'm supposed to give his fucking eulogy today._

John couldn't differentiate between the tears and the sweat anymore, all he knew was that his clothes were soaked. He stood up and walked towards the shower. The spray of water on his skin was strangely therapeutic. He stood there even after he was all clean, just stewing. A part of him still couldn't believe that this was truly happening. He needed closure. He needed to see Sherlock not breathing, to feel his cold skin. Over the last few days, he had flip-flopped between varying emotions. Denial, anger, bitterness and grief. Heart-wrenching, soul-crushing sadness. He had almost convinced himself that it was all just a conspiracy. Greg, Mycroft and everyone at Scotland Yard were just hiding the body from him, because dear, fragile John couldn't possibly handle seeing his best friend on a slab in the morgue. Because he suffered from PTSD. Because he saw a therapist.  _Fuck them all, I'm a soldier. I've been to Afghanistan. I've killed people._

John left the shower and dried himself off roughly as if he was rubbing his skin raw. This was the kind of pain he could manage, not the one inside him. Not the one that's been eating away at him. Not the one that was hell-bent on drowning him, suffocating him, crippling him. John took a step towards the door and fell.

"Damn it," he winced and cursed. His leg had been acting up at odd intervals. John knew it wouldn't be long before he'd have to use the cane again full-time. Using his arms and the door frame, John pulled himself up and limped towards his room to get dressed. He hated everything.

* * *

John didn't know how he managed to deliver the eulogy without breaking down. Maybe it was because everyone was expecting him to. Sherlock probably enjoyed proving everyone wrong more than anybody, and John finally understood why.

He had stood there on the podium, in front of so many eyes just waiting for him to burst into tears, and delivered the eulogy he had prepared. About how Sherlock Holmes was a great man. How he was good. How he had lived and died for the game. How he had rid the world of someone evil. How he was his best friend. He didn't say what an incredible arse he was for leaving him behind and going after Moriarty alone. He didn't mention how horribly insensitive and cruel he was for leaving him a fucking voicemail that he still hadn't deleted. They didn't need to know that he played it all the time just to hear him say his name. They didn't need to tell him how pathetic that sounded because John already knew. But that doesn't stop him from doing it.

After the service, a bunch of people queued up to give John their condolences. People Sherlock had helped. A married couple whom he had helped by finding their child when she had been taken. A divorced woman whom he had helped by finding her husband who had run off with the maid along with all their savings. An old man whom he had helped by finding who had murdered his son. As well as the people Jim Moriarty had strapped bombs to. Some of them hugged him, others shook his hand. He accepted their gratitude on Sherlock's behalf. But pretty soon, it was all just too much for John to bear and so he excused himself from the room, saying that he needed some air. Everyone gave him an understanding look and said no more.

* * *

John found himself near the edge of the water. He wasn't sure it was a conscious decision.  _Must have been_ , he thought. His feet had taken him where he had wanted to go. All the feelings that he had been holding in was bubbling dangerously close to the surface. He knew he couldn't hold them in any longer. And although he would rather have done this in the privacy of his room, John didn't quite care if anyone could hear him.

"SHERLOCK!" John shouted, bending forwards from the sheer effort of it. The cry carried with it the depths of his pain and anguish. It was a desperate plea and a vehement denial all in one. It was a fading hope and a growing despair. The sound was bitter, loving and, most of all, lonely.

With hot, angry tears streaking his face, John shouted again. "SHERLOCK!"

The immensity of emotions brought him to his knees.

"Sherlock," he whispered, the fight finally leaving him. The pain had numbed him and broken him to the point of acceptance.  _You left me._

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was a master of disguise. His fingers traced and touched his fake white beard and with a quick force he had ripped them off his face. He looked at his old, wrinkly hands and pulled them off as well revealing the pale skin underneath. John hadn't recognized him. Disguised as an old man, he had walked up to his friend and shook his hand. He seemed thinner and there were shadows under his eyes that weren't there before. Sherlock wondered what John sees when he sleeps.  _Does he see me falling? Does he see me dead?_

He had followed John to where he had supposedly died, hiding in the shadows and making sure to keep his distance. That became nearly impossible to do when he had heard John's scream.

"SHERLOCK!"

The cry sent chills down his spine and he almost felt as if he was jumping out of his own skin. His throat clenched in response and he slumped to the ground trying to breathe in the trickling air.

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock clapped his hand to his mouth to keep himself from crying out. Wracking sobs were tearing at his chest cavity, trying to find an escape, to find release. He tilted his head back against the wall and the tears fell from his eyes without warning. He didn't remove his hand until the sobs had receded.  _Forgive me, John. I need you to forgive me._

With his back leaning against the wall, Sherlock pushed himself up. He cast one longing look at the man kneeling at the edge of the water and turned away. One tentative step after another and Sherlock was walking. A few strides later, he was running. For the rest of his life, he knew he could never forget that unearthly sound, torn and stricken with sorrow and suffering.

Sherlock had been reliably informed that he didn't have a heart. But he couldn't deny what he had heard back there. The sound of two hearts breaking.


	3. Moving On

John had different nightmares now. It used to be about the sun and the sand. Everything was gold. The pattering sounds of bullets punctuated by distant, and sometimes, very close explosions. He'd hated having them then. Now, he went to bed wishing for one. Because for John, reliving the loud, blood-stained battlefield was infinitely better than _this._  In his nightmares, John witnessed Sherlock jump and his bad leg couldn't propel himself fast enough to stop his friend, to save him. In his nightmares, he swam until the air left his lungs and he drowned as he helplessly watched the darkness of the water welcome Sherlock in its depths.

Whenever he had these nightmares, John woke up panting and drenched in his own sweat. Some days he'd find that his eyes were wet and swollen. On others he'd find that his throat was sore and his voice hoarse. Crying in his sleep, shouting for his friend, John would start the day with a heaviness in his chest.

On the rare and fortunate days that he didn't have nightmares, John woke up to the calm and stillness. There was a chill he couldn't escape; it was in his very veins having mixed with his blood so thoroughly and completely. The coldness within him flowed to every part of his body, making his joints tired and stiff. It froze him. Paralyzed him. Waking up to the realization of his own solitude, John wouldn't start the day at all.

His subconscious tortured him in his sleep. And his consciousness attacked him in his every waking moment. John wondered when the pain would start fading away. And he wondered if he ever wanted it to. Because the pain helped him to remember and John didn't ever want to forget. Outside the sun was shining and people were doing their best to live. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair how they could be unaware that they were so vulnerable now, so very vulnerable and unprotected with Sherlock gone.

John wondered for the nth time how Sherlock could have hoped to keep anyone safe when he was no longer there to stand vigil, when he was no longer there to detect and recognize the treachery in their midst. The criminal classes were just biding their time.

* * *

"Sherlock, please do be more cautious next time. This is the second time you've been in the hospital this week." Mycroft gave him a chastising look, but Sherlock could read the worry on his face.

The two brothers were in that same room again. Sherlock was sitting up on the bed. His forehead was heavily bandaged and there was a cut on his right arm that had needed six stitches. His usually sleek black curls were gray in parts where the dust and rubble still clung to him. He breathed in the air that was still so heavily concentrated with disinfectant and antiseptic, but his frequent trips to this place had already desensitized him to the burning sensation it usually left. Sherlock looked up at his brother who was standing on his bedside wearing a three-piece suit. It was very easy to see why Mycroft was so unwilling to do any legwork, judging by the state of his younger brother.

"Did you capture them all then?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the advise.

"Yes, we managed to round them all up. But Sherlock-"

"Have you talked to them? Did they give you any information on where the others are?"

"We are in the process of doing just that. Sherlock-"

"You're getting slower, Mycroft. I would have assumed that you'd have it already. Might I suggest-"

"Sherlock, listen to me." Mycroft said in a voice that was slightly raised, but he nonetheless kept his cool exterior. "I will not have you throwing your life away at every step and turn of this endeavor. The whole point of having me assist you was so you could be better prepared and equipped. Yet you still jump in feet first without any thought of precautions and contingencies. This is not what we discussed."

Mycroft stared Sherlock down. It was clear to both of them the effort that Mycroft had exerted to keep his voice level and his expression passive. Sherlock felt a sudden urge to run his fingers along the stitches on his arm, admiring the work. He thought of his own army doctor.

"I have to go back to him, Mycroft. I need to finish this as fast as I can and return to him. I need him to forgive me." Sherlock continued staring at his arm, not wanting to read how Mycroft would react to this admission. Sherlock knew his brother would think him weak and pitiful, succumbing to his emotions like a naïve child. He expected a reprimand. He expected his brother to tell him again how caring was not an advantage. So it surprised him when he had heard his brother clear his throat and say, "You can't go back to him if you end up really dying. At the rate you're going, you wouldn't last long and you certainly won't be able to finish what you started."

Mycroft placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. "Sometimes I wonder why I asked you to even consider doing this. Maybe there was another way of bringing Moriarty down that I overlooked."

"You know I would have gone after him eventually. You just provided me with an opportunity."

"I suppose. As much as I don't want to see you get hurt, I would rather have that than have you do this without me."

Sherlock's already concussed brain almost couldn't handle the shock it had received upon processing his brother's words. But somehow it had still managed to send the correct signals to the nerves in his left arm, allowing Sherlock to move his hand across his chest and lay it on top of Mycroft's just as he had intended.

* * *

28th June

**Toe jam**

There was a jar of strawberry jam in the fridge. I grabbed it and set it on the table beside my two pieces of toast. I sat down and opened it. What I found, aside from jam, were…

TOES!

It's toe jam! Did you get it? Do you see? I think it's fucking hilarious.

1 comment

John, why aren't you answering my calls?

Harry Watson 28 June 9:53

* * *

John sighed as he saw his sister's comment on his latest blog post. He didn't mean to publish it. Regretted it as soon as he'd done it. He decided to delete it before anyone could see, but that didn't work out at all. Harry had seen it. And now she was calling him.

John deleted the post before it could do any more damage. He finally answered his sister's call on her fourth try. She was relentless.

"Hello Harry," he said, trying to sound cheerful.

"John. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Of course I'm fine," he said, but it almost seemed as if he was trying to convince himself rather than Harry.

"I saw your blog and -"

"Oh, it was just a joke. Hilarious, wasn't it?" John tried laughing at first, then reduced it to a chuckle. Everything that came out of his mouth tasted false.

"John, I'm really worried about you. It's been-"

"You don't need to worry about me. I'm fine," John said forcefully, trying to get her to drop it.

"No, you're not. John, maybe you should-"

"Don't tell me what I should or shouldn't do! Maybe you should worry about your own bloody problems seeing as I'm not drinking myself to death over here."

Harry didn't speak for a while and John knew that he had gone too far. He licked his lips and exhaled, trying to release his hostility.

"Harry, I didn't mean it. I'm so-"

"I haven't had a sip since I heard about what had happened. Not a single drop, John. You were always there for me. Always taking care of me. And I didn't deserve it at all. I was a screw up. I was a fucking mess. But you were always there. When I had heard about it, I knew things had to change. I knew it was my turn to take care of you. I knew you were going to need someone and I had hoped to be that person for you, the way you always were for me."

John's hand was trembling and then his whole body was shaking. The guilt mingled with his grief, overwhelming him. "I'm so so sorry, Harry," he managed to choke out. John swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to get a handle on himself.  _I said I wouldn't cry anymore. Don't. Just stop. Breathe._

"It's okay, John. It's okay."

"No, it's not," John's voice broke at the last word and he hung up.

It was no use. It was no good. The tears broke through the dam he had tried to build. John had never felt so defenseless, so out of control of himself. He didn't like it. Those exact words had triggered a memory. Why did everything remind John of  _him_? How had  _he_  fitted himself into John's life so perfectly and centrally that his  _memory_  eclipsed everything else?  _Why am I not surprised that_  y _ou're still so bloody difficult even when you're dead?_

* * *

John stared at his phone, his finger hovering over one of its buttons.  _Delete it. Delete it now. You need to move on._

It was Sherlock's voicemail. It had been more than a year already and he still hadn't deleted it. He knew he had to. He knew his therapist would approve of him doing it. John closed his eyes as he lowered his finger towards the single unoffending button. He could feel it under his finger, but he didn't seem to be able to produce the pressure needed to push it.  _No. Don't do it._

He pulled his finger away and sighed.  _It shouldn't be this difficult._  His eyes stared at the screen, focusing on the word  _Delete._  He tried doing it again with his eyes closed. He seemed to be holding his breath as his finger finally touched the surface of the button. A slight pressure and there. It was done.

John opened his eyes and looked at the screen again. Three words had appeared.  _Are you sure?_

"FUCK!" He cursed, resisting the urge to hurl his phone towards the opposite wall.

The left button was underneath the word  _Yes_ , the right was underneath the word  _No_. John's finger hovered over the left button.  _Damn this phone._   _Didn't I just press delete? Why do you have to ask me if I'm sure?_

John wasn't sure at all. John knew it was something that he had to do, but frankly he didn't want to. The voicemail contained Sherlock's voice. Deleting it seemed to John like deleting Sherlock from this world. He was dead. But there was still this shred of his existence. There was still his voice preserved and encoded in bits and bytes.  _Would it be so wrong to want to hold on to it?_  John thought.

His finger moved slowly towards the right button.  _No._  That was his answer.

He shook his head.  _No, you have to stop. You have to move on._  The left button now again. John is filled with apprehension.  _I'm not ready to let him go. I'm just not._

"John, how are you?"

Being too focused on his phone, the voice at the door surprised John and without meaning to, his finger landed on the  _Yes_  button.

"Shit. No. Don't delete it!" He shouted at the screen.  _Deleted._  "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."  _Stupid phone. Why didn't you ask me again if I was sure?_

John glared at the unwelcome visitor, wanting very much to wring whoever's neck. It was Mycroft. He stood there by the doorframe and gave him a quizzical look with a single raised eyebrow, almost exactly the one he had given him the first time they had met.

"Bad time?" Mycroft asked.

"Obviously," said John, gritting his teeth and emphasizing each syllable.

Mycroft strode in anyway. He always did. And John didn't know what to make of his concern. He didn't care much for it.

"I didn't say you could come in, Mycroft," John said, his voice unnaturally and dangerously level. Mycroft pretended not to notice, but John knew he did.

"I just wanted to see how you were doing." Mycroft said, still ignoring the look John was aiming at him. He gestured to the empty seat across from John's. A silent question.

John knew there was no way to make Mycroft leave if he didn't get what he came for. He gave an indifferent shrug and settled into his own chair, remembering to hurl the offending phone towards the floor. It didn't break, but John still felt a certain satisfaction by doing it. He considered standing up and stomping on it hard. But thought to wait until after Mycroft had left.

"You just saw me a couple of days ago. Honestly, I see you more often than I see my therapist and there's something wrong with that."

"If you had fired her like I told you to, I wouldn't have to personally come and see you."

"You'd just magically acquire all of my files, I'm sure."

"I would if they actually said anything of use. As it currently stands, your therapist is… well, I'm not actually here to speak ill of anyone."

"Yes, you're here to check up on me. I'm here. I'm fine. Satisfied?" John stood, gesturing towards the door. To his surprise, Mycroft stood as well.

"Hardly." Mycroft eyed him up and down, then said, "You've lost weight. Your clothes appear to be disguised as crumpled pieces of paper. Is that the latest fashion?"

Anger rising, John said, "I just-" but under Mycroft's cool gaze, he faltered, "I just haven't had a chance to iron anything that's all."

"Have you been out at all? And I don't mean getting groceries."

John opened his mouth and closed it again. Suddenly his shoes seemed like the most fascinating things in the room.

"My brother wouldn't want to see you like this, John. He wanted you to have a life. A safe one."

John balled his fists and didn't look up until Mycroft had exited the room.

He felt the urge to punch something, to destroy anything, because he knew Mycroft was telling him the truth. Sherlock had said so himself.

The thought reminded him of his phone on the floor. It was still there, and John still wanted to stomp it. He walked over to it purposefully, but before he could deliver the blow. It beeped.

It was from Mycroft.  _Hmm. He sent me something._

John drew in a sharp breath. "John… please forgive me for this." There it was. Sherlock's voice.

_Thought you might want this back. It's okay to keep it, you know. – MH_

_THANK YOU. – JW_


	4. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had done it, brought down Jim's evil empire. Every single one of his men was in custody. That should be something to celebrate.

With long, elegant fingers, Sherlock moved the curtains aside so he could get a better view of the London skyline. He breathed a sigh of relief and relished the sensation in his chest as his lungs increased then decreased in volume. It was almost as if he hadn't been breathing properly for a while. Three years to be exact. Three years of holding his breath.

Sherlock inhaled, his mind dissecting the life-sustaining process down to its fundamental steps.  _Inhale._  First, his diaphragm and intercostals muscles would contract, increasing the volume of his chest cavity and lifting his rib cage, thereby allowing his lungs to expand. The pressure inside would decrease creating a gradient which would act as a vacuum, drawing the air into his lungs.  _Exhale._  Next, his diaphragm and intercostals muscles would return to their relaxed positions, decreasing the volume of his chest cavity. His compressed lungs would experience an increase in pressure within, creating a gradient which would force the air out. Inhale then exhale again.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock allowed the muscles in his face to form a smile. It was short-lived. There was a sense of trepidation under his skin. _John._  He would be seeing John very soon. The thought both thrilled… and scared him. John was a variable now and Sherlock couldn't begin to predict how his friend would react to his return. Too much time had passed, but he held on to the small hope that there would be time to fix everything, to make up for what he had done, for all that he may have inadvertently caused John by making him believe he was dead. Sherlock hoped there would be time to earn John's forgiveness even though he knew that he didn't deserve it.  _It may even be kinder to stay "dead", wouldn't it?_ , he asked himself. John had had three years to come to terms with it. If Sherlock were to appear in front of him again, wouldn't it be an act of cruelty and selfishness? Wouldn't it destabilize the peaceful existence John had built for himself? The very thing Sherlock had wanted for him. Wouldn't it be better then… wouldn't it be  _good_  of him to just stay away? Sherlock didn't know. He felt unsettled and unsure. John was always the one who told him when something was  _a bit not good_ , and Sherlock couldn't very well call him up and discuss this with him. He and he alone could make this decision, just like the one he had made all those years ago. Sherlock moved away from the window and sat himself down on the single bed, burying his face in his hands and then running them through his now short, cropped hair twice.

A thought came to him suddenly and for a second his spirits lifted.  _It's over though. That's definitely something good._  Sherlock lowered himself onto the bed, his legs over the edge and his feet firmly planted on the floor. He had done it, brought down Jim's evil empire. Every single one of his men was in custody. That should be something to celebrate.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Sherlock pulled it out and raised it so he could see who it was, though he knew it could only be Mycroft. He groaned inwardly when he saw his brother's name on the screen. Mycroft was the only person he had been in contact with for three years. It had become so tediously boring and Sherlock, at this point, missed talking to the skull.

"Mycroft, what-"

"Moran got away."

Sherlock felt a sudden jolt run through his body, pulling him to his feet at once. Those three words sent his internal organs in disarray. His heart had jumped up his throat. His lungs seem to have dropped to where his stomach used to be, no longer supported by his diaphragm. Sherlock tried to breathe but it was almost as if his body had forgotten how to.

 _Diaphragm and intercostals muscles contract._  "He managed to disarm one of his guards,"  _Lungs expand._  "then snapped the neck of the other one before finishing the first one off."  _Decreased pressure sucks air in._  "We don't know where he's gone,"  _Diaphragm and intercostals muscles relax._  "but we're scanning the video feeds from every camera with a facial recognition software."  _Lungs compress._  "Meanwhile, you should stay where you are,"  _Increased pressure forces air out._  "I'll send people to your location right away."  _Inhale then exhale again._

"Don't bother," Sherlock said, his breathing finally returning to normal. "He's going after John."

There was silence on the line and Sherlock took this as an agreement. That piece of insight had him wired. Every nerve in his body begged for movement.  _Go, go now,_  they seemed to say. And Sherlock didn't want to waste another second. He grabbed his coat and, passing his phone from his left hand to the right then back again, managed to put it on quickly. He reached for the door just as Mycroft said, "I know nothing I say will stop you, but please don't be reckless, Sherlock."

A loud, mirthless laugh escaped Sherlock's mouth and it surprised the both of them. He turned the knob and rushed out, heading towards the stairs.

Sherlock couldn't be bothered to reply to his brother's plea so instead he asked, "How long since he escaped?"

"About twenty minutes ago."

"Where's John?"

"Surveillance cameras place him in 221B. He's-" Mycroft broke off suddenly and Sherlock knew something was wrong.

"Well, what is it?" Sherlock asked as he jumped down the last two steps. The momentum sent him flying towards the door and out it within seconds.

"We've just spotted Moran. He's about five minutes away from Baker Street."

* * *

John was on the floor. He could feel the ridges on the sole of Moran's boot digging into his back.  _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._  John mentally kicked himself for not being more observant. He was a soldier for crying out loud. He couldn't understand why he wasn't able to sense that there had been a threat. Had three years of being idle completely erased his training?

Moran held the gun close to his temple so John could see it in his peripheral vision. "Jesus Christ! What the hell do you want?"

"Revenge. Sherlock killed Jim and he's going to pay for that."

"Is that all? Let me get his card. Oh wait, I can't. BECAUSE IT'S AT THE BOTTOM OF THE FUCKING THAMES."

"Think you're being clever, do you?" Moran asked. There was a sharp edge to his voice as he pressed the gun to John's cheek. John tried not to blink.

"It's been three years, don't you think you waited too long to collect? Sherlock's dead." The admission brought forth a familiar ache in his chest. It was a fact he had to constantly repeat to himself until the ache had turned dull from over-expression. He was used to it now. In three years, John had learned to cope, to survive and to find another way of living his life. He closed his eyes and waited for the bullet to penetrate his skull. He wasn't afraid, unlike before when the bullet tore through the muscles in his shoulder. He knew he was close to death, but his mind was quiet. There was no screaming, no bargaining, no 'Please, God, let me live". There was nothing but peace and calm…

"Are you sure?"

And then utter chaos.

* * *

Sherlock was running. A desperate heart-pounding, legs-aching run. He focused his mind on a single objective, a simple action.  _Faster._

His surroundings seemed to blend and blur together, but Sherlock knew where he was and where he was headed. He was only three blocks away. He sped forward, trying to dodge obstacles and people as best he could and taking every short cut. At some point, he faltered and almost stumbled, but his hand touched the ground and with a push he corrected his gait and continued without delay.

Every muscle, every fiber and every blood cell in his body were screaming from overexertion.  _Stop_ , they told him, s _top._  Sherlock was slowing down. His body was failing him. He leaned on a lamp post and tried catching his breath, feeling his leg muscles and the soles of his feet throb painfully. His heart was beating to bursting against his rib cage. Sherlock looked in the direction of 221B Baker Street and a cold wave of fear washed over him.  _John, please be alright. Please don't be dead._

Sherlock started running again, each stride bringing him closer to John. He didn't know what he would do when he got there. He didn't have a plan. All he had was a prayer, a wish, a hope. The people around him seemed to finally feel his frantic, panicked energy and made way for him to pass. He was almost there. Almost.

He prayed he wasn't late.

* * *

"What?" was all John could manage. The question threw him and the certainty he had built within himself was suddenly thrown into doubt. John remembered how his phone had asked him that very same question when he tried deleting Sherlock's voicemail.  _Am I sure?_

John tried shaking off the confusion, but it was hard to accomplish when his face was pressed against the floor.  _Sherlock's dead_ , he told himself, more out of habit than sure belief.

"Didn't tell you then? What he was planning?"

John didn't know what to think. He didn't want to believe anything this man said. He had carefully and painstakingly reconstructed his world with the fact that Sherlock was dead at its core. Moran was undoing the very center of John's peaceful bubble and John didn't like that at all. He had worked so hard on it.

"He must not have trusted you enough."

John forced his eyes shut as if doing so would stop him from hearing.  _Sherlock was dead. He's dead. I gave his eulogy. He left me a fucking voicemail. He's dead._ Because what was the alternative? John wasn't going to believe that Sherlock had faked his own death, that Sherlock had kept this plan secret from him, that he had let John suffer and grieve for him. John wouldn't… he couldn't believe that. The idea that Sherlock had made John believe he was dead was just something that didn't make sense in his mind. Because if it was true, that would be the douchiest, most heartless and thoughtless thing the sodding bastard had ever done. John had to admit that Sherlock was  _capable_  of something like that, but to actually do it?  _To me? Would he?_

"I'd trust John with my life," said a voice John had no trouble recognizing.

John opened his eyes in shock and watched as Sherlock crossed the space between them and tackled Moran before he could shoot. John quickly stood up and fought the urge to pinch himself to check if any of this was real. Some part of him wondered if there had been something in his tea this morning. John shrugged off the ridiculous thought and processed the situation. Sherlock and Moran were still struggling on the floor and Moran's gun was pinned between their bodies. A shot broke through the air.  _The gun. My gun._  John rushed over to his desk and found his own gun on the top drawer. He grabbed it and turned his head just in time to see Moran throw Sherlock's slumped body off of him and aim a shot at John. John was much quicker. His hand closed and melded into the metal, and the feel of it triggered John's procedural long-term memory. He fired one shot and it was over.

John called for an ambulance before rushing to Sherlock's side. There was already a pool of blood where he lay. John looked around for a piece of cloth he could use to stop the bleeding, then finally giving up, he pulled off his own shirt.

"Stop bleeding, damn it." John assessed the injury. The bullet had entered Sherlock's left side. There was no exit wound.  _The bullet's still inside him_. If they were in the battlefield, John would have to find some way of getting it out. He was thankful that now was neither the time nor place for something like that.

"John…"

At the sound of his name, John looked up. It seemed like it was the first time he had seen his friend although he had seen him walk in the door. This time he noticed the short hair, the more pronounced cheekbones and the pale skin.  _Much too pale._  John cast a worrying look back at Sherlock's wound until Sherlock tried catching his attention again by tugging on his wrist.

"John… I'm so sorry." His voice was deathly soft. John inwardly cursed the ambulance for taking so long.

"You bloody well should be! You walk in here, back from the dead and you get yourself shot! I can't even get mad at you properly right now. I want to beat the shit out of you, scream at you until my lungs give out. But I can't. Because you had to get yourself shot, you fucking idiot. Stop bleeding!" John commanded.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Sherlock found himself chuckling. "I would if I could, John. Forgive me, please." Sherlock could feel the strength draining out of him, leaving him. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open. His vision alternated between John's beautiful, worried face and the blackness behind his lids.

"No, I won't fucking forgive you. You made me believe you were dead for three years! Three fucking years, Sherlock! And then you waltz back in here and tell me you're alive. For what? So you can bleed to death in front of me for real?"

John reached for Sherlock's face with one of his bloody hands to force him to look at him. Sherlock was dangerously close to losing consciousness, John had noticed. "Listen to me. Look at me, Sherlock!" The panic was rising in John's voice. Sherlock weakly managed to open his eyes, and he looked at John through those tiny slits. He was too tired.

"I won't forgive you, you hear me? If you die here now, I will never forgive you. So stay awake! Help will be here soon. Just stay awake, okay, Sherlock?" John's voice transitioned from angry to pleading. "Stay with me, Sherlock, please." Sherlock smiled. He liked hearing John say his name; he had missed the sound of it. He wanted nothing more than to stay here with John. But his eyes were too heavy and the blackness was pulling at him obstinately, calling him, telling him it was time to go.

"Sorry, John," he managed to whisper with the last of his strength and then Sherlock fell, headfirst into the endless black stillness hiding behind his eyelids.


	5. The End

The circular room was lined with empty shelves and cabinets painted with tinges of blue. Light came in through the windows, combating the shadows that hid within, but it was not enough. A great deal of the room was bathed in grey and darkness. Those empty shelves were not empty, after all. No. They held secrets. Secrets of men and women who came and deposited them here, leaving them behind so they can proceed with their normal lives. Confidentiality was its purpose, its breath and life. John had hidden one of his secrets in those shelves. His eyes scanned the room, trying to pinpoint which.

"John?" A female voice called his name. She was sitting right across from him, with a clipboard on her lap and a pen in her right hand.

"Hmmm?" John made a noise as if to say she had his attention. Half of it, possibly. The other half was still trying to locate the secret he had left behind. John wanted it back. He wanted to keep it for himself.  _Sherlock's alive._

"John, it's been three years. You have to move on."

John didn't want to see the pitying expression his therapist was giving him, so he shook his head. "No, I don't  _have to_  do anything. Sherlock's not dead. He's not. He's just faking."

At these words, a sense of alarm touched Ella's features, betraying the passive mask she was always supposed to wear. She reached out and touched John's hand which was on the arms of the chair, getting him to look at her.

"John, he's dead. He's not coming back," she said as gently as she could.

"No," John shook his head again. "No, no, he's not dead," he said again, more vehemently this time. "He'll come back to me. He did it before. He didn't die. He's not dead." John then started laughing, "Sherlock has you all fooled. Well, he's not fooling me again. He'll come back. I know it."

Though she tried covering it with her hand, John saw what his therapist wrote.  _Denial._

* * *

John watched as a number of men lifted the coffin. The silence around him was overwhelming and honestly surprising. His eyes scanned the crowd of people who had gathered for this funeral. For  _his_  funeral. They all stood there with tear-stained cheeks and solemn faces. Even those who had hated Sherlock were there. All the lives he had touched in some way. John wanted to laugh at these people. The whole scene was bloody ridiculous.

"Sherlock's not dead," he told them. The crowd moved as a single entity and all eyes were on John. A loud sob pierced the stillness and John saw his sister Harry kneeling on the ground, with Greg and Mrs. Hudson on either side of her, trying to help her up. John saw her flowing tears and her pained expression. It was a look that told John exactly what Harry was thinking, what everyone was probably thinking.  _John's lost his mind._

John bristled slightly but shrugged it off. Why didn't they believe him? John didn't know. It was so obvious. But of course! He needed proof. He looked around as if one would just materialize somewhere near him and his eyes landed on the coffin and the men carrying it away.

"Look. I'll prove it to you. To all of you. Sherlock's alive. That coffin's empty, look, I'll show you."

John ran towards the men and they'd obliged him. John placed a hand on the varnished top as if he was trying to feel through it, to sense the emptiness within. He waited for the crowd to come closer before opening it.

John stumbled backwards in disbelief. Sherlock lay inside –  _calm, peaceful, quiet_  – contrasting completely with John's internal state –  _ruffled, shocked, chaotic_. John stared intently at the lifeless, pale body.  _Sherlock's just pretending_ , John told himself.  _It's all an act. All part of the secret plan._  Sherlock had to breathe at some point and John just had to catch his doing it. But seconds passed and then minutes, agonizingly slow and deliberate.  _He's still not breathing_.

John rushed back to the coffin on his hands and knees. He reached inside and took Sherlock's wrist, checking for a pulse.  _None._  He dropped the offending, uncooperative limb and looked at his friend more closely, trying to find anything amiss.  _The body's a fake, must have been surgically modified to look like him. Mycroft must have helped him._  But the workmanship was too perfect; there was no sign of any scarring. He grabbed Sherlock by his collar and tried to shake him awake. "Oi. Tell them you're alive. You're alive, damn it! You're not dead!"  _Still no response._

"Why are you doing this to me?" John asked between sobs. "Why?" He wiped his tears away with the sleeve of his coat. "Not again, please. Not again. I don't know if I can survive it."

* * *

It was like falling, but at the same time standing still. There was nothing but black and darkness and silence.  _But that wasn't right_ , Sherlock thought.  _If it was completely dark, I wouldn't be able to see myself._  Sherlock held both of his hands in front of him, flipped them over, inspecting. He reached down and felt his thighs, bent his knees and felt his legs then his shoes. He trusted his senses and they told him he was here. Corporeal and not spirit. Solid not vapor.  _But here is where exactly?_  Sherlock couldn't see through the veil of shadows that seemed to have swallowed everything else, but him.

Sherlock tried taking a step forward, wondering if he would fall into the blackness underneath his feet. He didn't. Or maybe he didn't notice. There was no way of measuring distance, no markers, nothing distinctfully memorable. There was nothing in this oblivion. Just Sherlock and the light that seemed to have contorted itself into his silhouette. He wondered whether or not he was dead.

 _I was dying. I was bleeding._  He remembered suddenly, his hands touching that part of his abdomen where the bullet had pierced through.  _Nothing. No entry wound._

 _I'm dead then. Must be,_  he mused. Sherlock Holmes and life's greatest mystery –  _death_. There was no mystery after all, just an eternity of nothingness.  _How dull._

Sherlock started walking just for something to do, bored with his own morbidity.  _But which way to go?_  A sudden pull seemed to pass through Sherlock at this thought. It made him turn around, just slightly. Sherlock couldn't tell the difference but he followed the pull, the attractive force that seemed to be taking him somewhere. Or nowhere.

He tried remembering other things that had happened before he arrived here.  _John._  John's face lined with worry. His voice soft and broken and pleading. Sherlock's name on his lips. Wonderful, glorious John.

Then he remembered something that caused a frown, contorting the angles of his face.  _John said he'd never forgive me._  It seemed as though his chest was caving in from the thought. His right hand clutched at his sternum, as if trying to reach through his skin and hold it up manually. He could feel the pressure of his hand on his chest. He could feel fabric and skin in the palm of his hand and on his fingertips. But then, he lost all feeling.

He looked down and saw his hand had disappeared.

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes to the glare of bright lights, the familiar burning scent of chemicals and the rhythmic beeping of machines. His heart plotted out in a series of dips and spikes. His iconic memory lingered and he looked at this right hand, almost trembling with the worry that it wouldn't be there anymore. What he saw calmed him instantly and he smiled. John was sleeping by his bedside. His hand held Sherlock's firmly, pinning it under his arms where his head lay. Sherlock couldn't feel anything beyond his elbow but the numbness warmed him. He watched John as he slept, noting every tiny twitch and every line. He frowned suddenly, having deduced that his friend was having a nightmare.

Sherlock reached out to touch John, to stir him awake. Hesitantly. Carefully. He kept reaching then pulling back, uncertainty dictating his movement.  _What's the proper social protocol for these things?_ , he wondered.  _And where to touch him?_   _His arm? His shoulder? His hand? His face?_  Sherlock was saved from the questions in his mind, when John suddenly woke up gasping.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock asked, his face brimming with concern.

John looked around almost as if to check if he was still in his nightmare. His eyes landed on Sherlock at once. He stood up rather hastily, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders as his chair toppled and fell to the sterilized floor. Sherlock could see the mingled surprise and relief on his face when his hands made contact with Sherlock's body. His hands started touching every part of Sherlock they could reach. Started with his shoulders, then his neck, moving below to his arms, then up again to his face, making a detour through his hair. Releasing the breath he had been holding and seemingly satisfied, John righted the chair and sat down once more.

"You dreamt I was dead," Sherlock said. It wasn't a question.

"My head is fucking messed up. Everyone thought I was insane in there. Trying to tell them you faked your death. And then I saw you there, inside the-" John's voice broke and he was shaking all over. Sherlock reached out and patted his friend on the shoulder, his hand moving as if they were tracing circles on John's blue scrubs.

"-coffin," John finally managed to say and he buried his face in his hands, whispering "Oh, God," over and over again.

"John, I- I'm sorry… for putting you through this whole ordeal," Sherlock stammered. John looked up at him and he could feel the anger erupting from John's skin. Sherlock braced himself.

"You fucking bastard." He shouted, his head shaking in fury. "Do you know how many times we had to bring you back? I've lost count of the times you flat-lined. What the  _ **fuck**_  were you doing? Do you even know what you put me through in the past three years? And that's nothing compared to the past 24 hours! Coming back to life and nearly dying again? Must be a world record then, Sherlock? You sod.  _ **Are**_  you trying to kill me?" John was panting, his face completely red. Sherlock had never seen him so angry. He cleared his throat and said, "I was trying to keep you safe." His voice was so quiet, it was almost like a sigh. But John had still heard.

"Who  _ **fucking**_  told you to do that? I didn't need to be safe. I needed you! Alive! But you decided to torment me for three  _ **fucking**_  years for a stupid,  _ **fucking**_ , noble reason! When were you ever noble, Sherlock? Why did you choose to be then? And don't get me started on that bloody voicemail you left me!"

"I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry. I'm not expecting you to forgive me. And if you want to leave me, that's fine. I won't stop you."

Through his haze of anger, John saw Sherlock's face. He looked so much like a child and John couldn't help but soften a bit.

"I think the lack of oxygen to your brain turned you stupid. Didn't I just say that I needed you? Need you," he corrected.

Sherlock looked at him, and John noticed his pale eyes were slightly brighter. But he wasn't going to let him off that easily.

"I still don't forgive you though. I'll beat the shit out of you first, and then I'll forgive you." John smiled at Sherlock and Sherlock found himself returning it, even though he was just promised bodily harm.

"Looking forward to it," he said.

"Go back to sleep. You lost a lot of blood, you should rest."

Sherlock laid back down on his pillow and closed his eyes. A memory jumped at him through the darkness.

_**Somebody loves you. Well, if I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too.** _

Sherlock smiled, and deliberately flipped his right hand over, palm side up. It was an unvoiced question, a quiet hope and a wordless promise all in one.

John took his hand in answer.


End file.
